


Cruor

by ThereminVox



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 09:49:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21072920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereminVox/pseuds/ThereminVox
Summary: To reveal secret of title, add Google on speed dial.





	Cruor

With forceful, boyish tugs, a modest trio of hairs are gathered to a single rope, jerking the victim’s head cervix to scoliosis. Faster than a wink, a blade presses against his bobbing Adam’s apple, beads of blood beginning to accrete past the initial stage of ecchymosis.

“ _ This ends tonight. _ ”

Jerome’s resounding cackle trails posthaste from sarcastic intimation.

“Isn’t that what your batsy boyfriend said?”

Jeremiah takes a definitive, lethal lunge at his brother; the envious, wrathful Cain to his Abel. In _this_ sacrilegious rendition, the two weren’t mutually exclusive.

More cackles. Operatic conduction of cachinnating echoes. Mixing with the factory’s chemical solutions. Bleeding machinic acid into human wounds.

“It doesn’t have to be this way, Jerome. You don’t have to do this.”

Jerome makes dramatic strides down the industrial catwalk. Jeremiah intuits his imitation of him via that night with Bruce and a foiled plot at the claws of one noisome alley cat.

“ _ But, I- _ …  _ I do _ .”

The severe laceration making a permanent, if not grotesque, smile of his lower face makes valiant effort in miming his affected pout.

“ _ Why are you even here?”  _ The irony of him responding with a gnarled whine of his own.

“No one  _ ever _ has the courtesy of staying dead in this city. Those corpse beetles aren’t going to feed themselves, you know.”

Beneath the modulated, shivered pitch, a hint of humour tickles his lips, yet his tone was nonetheless grievous. His eternal flame of a twin should, indeed, be couch surfing with the Prince of Hell by now. If nothing else,  _ someone _ was getting indicted on the plaint of mendacious engravings on a tombstone.

_ ‘Second time’s the charm’? _

If ‘second’ accounted for every value succeeding one, perhaps there was evidence yet. As it stands, the nth power was an invalid input to Jeremiah’s preprocessor.

“As the certifiably sane would say… I’m here for one reason, and one reason only.”

“Which would be?” Jeremiah gestures impatiently, bat blade still lodged in his hand.

(Naturally, he’s kept it as a souvenir, against all doctor’s orders…)

“To fuck you.”

If it didn’t perplex him, it almost enraged Jeremiah with how casual the utterance drips from his scabrous mouth.

Catching the Cryptkeeper by surprise, Jerome thrusts his blade (within comfortable grip of hand, opposed to damaging tissue like a certain lovesick weirdo) forth with callow implication.

“Congratulations, brother.” Jeremiah pants, regaining breath from reflexive dodging. “You’ve confused ‘fuck’ with ‘kill’. Yet, I wonder. How many times must you insist on asserting your madness?”

Another energetic thrust, pushing Jeremiah back inch by virgin inch.

In the decade following the incident, Gotham’s citizens assisted in funding reparations to the facility. That once faulty railing leading to his beauty’s demise was now erect with a more formidable structural integrity.

“Depends.” Jerome counters with equally sharpened tongue. “How many times do you feel the need to channel an old fart of a poet in your speech? Or ‘casual conversation’, as us common folk would say.”

Jeremiah stifles the bubbling cauldron of laughter burning his throat.

“There’s nothing  _ casual _ about this, and there’s certainly nothing common about you.”

Jerome appears three shades paler than a sheet of paper. As Jeremiah’s fears would have it, it would seem he’s, in literal terms,  _ crawled from the grave. _

“Says the guy who came from the same whore’s womb. But, hey! We’re all sons of bitches, am I right?”

Before Jeremiah can voice another argument, “But, enough about deadbeat mothers and roadkill history.”

Making kissy-faces with a taut stretch of chapped lips, there is little jest to be tasted.

“C’mere and give broski a kiss.”

Dumbfounded, Jeremiah loses his footing, stumbling backwards in a strange bout of clumsy bearing.

“Did ya know I got a fear kink? Reserved especially for you…  _ And you’re afraid _ .” Taunting. “Oh, I see it.” Teasing. “ _ I scare ya _ .” Titillating. “ _ Admit it. _ ”

Jeremiah sneers, playing along.

“Yes, Jerome. My dear manic of a twin. I  _ am _ afraid.” Weak smile, twitching. “Quite frankly, you  _ petrify _ me.”

Jerome chuckles darkly, teeth flashing, pleased with the sardonicism he’s deaf to hearken.

“I’m terrified of what you’ll do to me.” Hints of hysterics itching at his wrinkled nose. “Just the thought of having that Vienna sausage anywhere near my hole… is nightmare fuel.” Shuddering in mock disgust.

An eerie stretch of silence ensues.

Without any further warning, Jeremiah is fell to a state of feverish delirium. A flurry of body movements. Thrashing limbs. A series of unfortunate events. At the end of it all, his hole finds itself silenced by a cylinder of meat, far greater in mass than what was initially hypothesised.


End file.
